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The following are memories recalled by Dennis Ridge, as recorded by Hanover Housing Association in their book 'Tale of the Century' published in 1999.
In the early 1950's I was sent to Persia (now known as Iran) to carry our field surveys to assess the feasibility of establishing a cement factory. William Rutherford, the survey leader, made it sound like a jolly jaunt.
The air trip to Tehran in those days involved two overnight stops en route. We had meetings over a few days in Tehran and then set off on our long journey in a robust vehicle.
We should have realised that the journey was to be tough, as there was a standby vehicle, seventeen spare inner-tubes, vulcanising equipment and enough tools and spares to practically rebuild the cars. In places the road was non-existent; at most it was a mud track with deep grooves scored by monster trucks and was full of pot holes.
In the villages we slept in very rough and ready guest houses, which were none too clean. There were no shops to purchase food on the way. We declined some putrefied meat and existed on locally baked bread, raw onions and eggs.
We passed through Isfahan -- a town without cars, only horse-drawn vehicles rather like Russian droskas -- and on to the town of Qom which has the mosque with the gold dome.
The journey got gradually worse as we left the towns behind. At one point we got multiple punctures which, it turned out were caused by home-made nails thrown by locals to sabotage our vehicles. Apparently ours resembled the drug squad cars!
Whilst they were being repaired we were escorted to the local canteen. It was lit by smelly oil lamps and filled with smoke from an open fire, hashish and cigarettes. We drank very rough red wine and listened to stories translated to us by our guide.
We rested for half a day in the town of Harmadan which was relatively civilised -- the guest house boasting bathrooms and hot water! In the evening our guide and I went to see a local travelling show.
It took place in a shabby café, one third of which was screened off by a blanket suspended from the ceiling. A man appeared in a gypsy-like costume and spoke to us in Farsi, which I did not understand.
Suddenly he whipped aside the blanket to reveal netting suspended at 45º from ceiling to floor, with coloured lights suspended from the top of the net.
In the centre was a crudely made paper maché scorpion which appeared to have the head of a young boy. I concentrated on the scene but could see no sign of the boy's body nor see how it could possibly be concealed. All at once the boy opened his eyes, spoke and accepted sweets. The illusion was a great mystery to me.
After two more days of hard motoring, we came to the end of our thousand kilometre journey. It was getting dark as we reached Kerman, which appeared to be a collection of ramshackle buildings made of mud and logs.
 Apparently VIP guests always stayed at the house of the mayor. He had been woken up for us and appeared in rather grey looking long johns and a fur coat. He was about twenty stone, bald and had gold teeth. We were taken to what was evidently his own bedroom and were expected to share his bed.
The room was extremely cold and very dark. The bed was massive and the covers were uncured fur skins that stank. I shed only my boots. The mayor was soon asleep, grunting and snoring continuously. I thought I would never be able to sleep but eventually tiredness took over.
Outside was an open cesspool, which I had stumbled on during the night. To wash we had to pump our own water from the well, and it was icy cold. Breakfast was a glass of 'chi' (red sweet tea) and a kind of porridge with bits of meat and something that tasted and looked like wood in it.
We diplomatically explained to the mayor that we could not impose upon his hospitality for more than one night and for the rest of our stay we moved into our own mud hut. There was no furniture and our drivers cooked our meals on a charcoal fire in one corner.
The food was indescribable but it goes to show that one will eat anything when one is hungry enough. We slept on the floor with the window open to let out the smell and smoke.
We spent many days mapping the area and one day while resting saw in the distance a band of men on horseback galloping towards us.
We thought they might be bandits and waited with baited breath.
We counted some 30 men armed with guns and bandoleers. Their leader, an impressive man dressed in fur, began a long speech which did not sound antagonistic, particularly as he kept a half smile on his face.
Then one of his followers dropped a large full sack in front of us before all turned tail and galloped off. It seemed the leader was a local tribal chief and he had left us a gift.
Was it gold, we wondered?
When we opened it, it was full of pistachio nuts, so our nourishment for the return journey was somewhat improved.
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